It's Cold
by Inane Fry
Summary: John's on top of St. Bart's thinking about Sherlock. For the last time.


John stood on top the St. Bart's and looked out into the dark city. It was the middle of winter and Christmas was just around the corner. A few Christmas lights could be seen sparkling in the distance, and the last laughter of drunken couples catching cabs could be heard. Most of the pubs would be closing right about now. Snow fell in light flurries and the flakes landed on John's hot face, melting instantly. They formed small droplets of water on his face and made him appear as though he was crying. He was done crying though, done with it all.

It had been a few months now since Sherlock jumped. Jumped right from the very spot John stood now. The last few months have all been a blur of comforting voices and gentle pats. There were many who came to visit. Lestrade coming over every once in a while, always with a drink in hand. Mycroft having told him that he would continue to find out more about the suicide and place protection over John if necessary. He told Mycroft to "fuck off" and stalked away from the umbrella twirling git. He had so much anger these past few months. Mrs. Hudson had to patch up his fists after a particularly bad outburst. All he could remember of it was finding Sherlock's cigarettes and punching the mirror. The glass had shattered everywhere and gave him quite a few wounds. He flexed his hand, recalling the way the skin made a satisfying rip when his fist made contact with the reflection of himself holding one of Sherlock's nasty habits.

He missed him to be honest. The way Sherlock would text him, even if he was preoccupied or a good distance away, just to come back to the apartment to do a simple task for him. The mellifluous violin at three in the morning. Sherlock's lissome hands carefully placed together when he was thinking, deep inside his own little mind palace. The constant flow of cases coming in and Sherlock dragging John along with him. Well, it wasn't particularly dragging. He enjoyed the thrill of the chase and the danger he faced on Sherlock's cases. He wanted to be there to protect Sherlock. Obviously, he couldn't do that as well as he thought. All excitement in his life was gone without Sherlock.

There was a lump in his pocket. His phone. It hadn't been turned on for quite some time. Why have it on when the one person you want to talk to wont be able to reply? He flipped it open and held down the power button, waiting for it to start up. The phone started buzzing constantly with the stream of texts he received from all those who apologized for his loss. He deleted all his texts, except for one.

I'm sorry. -SH

It wasn't actually Sherlock Holmes, of course. This text had to be some terrible prank because it was sent the hour after Sherlock's death. John still wanted it though, maybe it was because he liked to pretend it was Sherlock. It was Sherlock's ghost sending him apologetic texts from the grave, he told himself. He chuckled and shook his head at the silly thought. A thumb hovered over the delete button, and pressed down on it softly. It was time to let go.

Shivering, John stared down to the sidewalk. His eyes closed and all he could see was the blood that splattered the cement only months before. The dark red streaming out over the street. All he could see was blood these days. It still felt like he had Sherlock's blood on his hands. He was incredibly frustrated, mostly with himself. He didn't try hard enough to stop the fall. It was his own fault that Sherlock jumped. This whole mess was his fault because he couldn't protect the only man who made him feel alive again. He no longer wanted to live without Sherlock, and it only made him angrier. He began to take a step forward, closer to the very edge. Swallowing, this was it. It would all finally be over and he would get what he deserved. He closed his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I'll be with you soon."

Before he could take his first step off, his phone buzzed in his hand. Sighing, he looked down at the brightly lit screen and squinted. No. It couldn't be. The caller ID said "Sherlock Holmes". How dare someone take his phone and impersonate Sherlock? John began to burn with rage, the cold not even penetrating his clothing anymore. Out of his simple hatred for this prank caller, he answered.

"Look, whoever you think you are, do not fucking call under his name. Do not call using Sherlock's number. Don't you fucking dare try to be him," John growled.

"John. I'm alive. I would prefer you not jump off the ledge, as I see no way for you to survive. You've got no plan, John. I know you can be an idiot sometimes, but I doubt you are this low on the intelligence scale. Come down, now. Let's go to dinner."

Down on the street, stood a rather tall man with black hair. He wore a long coat and a scarf from what John could make out. The voice over the phone was low and forceful. This man was Sherlock Holmes. The man who was meant to be dead.

"Sherlock?"

He couldn't believe it. No, it had to be an imposter or something. That could not be Sherlock standing down there, calling him on the phone, telling him to come down. It was nothing more than a stranger getting his hopes up, taunting him with this pain.

"Yes, John. That would be my name. I'm real. I am not a fake. Why don't you come down and see for yourself?" He said in a coaxing manner. This was all so tempting to John, but he just could not wrap his mind around it. He felt numb all over and couldn't control his body. The phone was shaking as he held it up to his ear. In a matter of fact, his entire being was shaking, trembling with a mixture of anger, excitement, and fear. His mouth couldn't even begin to form words, all he could manage to do was breath and that wasn't going so well either.

"John? John? John!"

The voice on the phone grew more impatient and frantic with each call of John's name, but this Sherlock imposter was not going to receive a reply. John had already hung up the phone, staring blankly into the night. This was all an illusion to him. Nothing about this was real. Sherlock was dead and John knew this to be true. He took his pulse. He saw the body. This was the only fact that he was certain of in his mind. The wind was beginning to pick up and a cold wind whipped around his ears. All he heard was the rushing of the air and felt the cold sting. He stood there for just a moment, enough to enjoy the last bit of feeling he would have. He spread his arms and let himself go.


End file.
